A Moment of Quiet
by Antonio61384
Summary: Many in this universe are so very old, and that age can make them seem beyond human, but with a little moment of time to themselves, you can see that they are very much human, even if they aren't. Everyone has flaws, everyone has pain, they are no different in this respect. These are a collection of tales of them reflecting upon themselves and their lives.
1. The Lost

_Those who drift away from the shore often find themselves lost and alone in the waves_

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Drifter is many things and has many titles: rogue lightbearer, creator of Gambit, Dredgen, and very, very old. He had lost track over the centuries the exact number of years he had been alive. Well, resurrected. As far know he was aware the only Guardians that could possibly be older than him was Lord Saladin and Lady Efrideet. Then again they only spoke of the warlord's fall from power, and Drifter had seen their rise from ashes. It was not often when the Drifter felt this age-the little light ever bright by his side kept his body in its prime. Oh, but how he ever felt in now. The ache in he found in every movement, The pain in his lower back from resting on the railing to long, the throbbing in his feet from standing all day, the gravelly texture to his throat from commentating, and an exhaustion that seemed to go beyond that of a hard day's work.

With the combination of soul shaking nightmares and caffeine deliberately consumed to keep them at bay, sleep was out of the question. The bags under his eyes may be heavy enough to make Emperor Callus blush, but in no way were they a match for his highly trained eyelids. No, he would not sleep. Rest however, rest sounded nice. A little moment to just be alone sounded perfect. No Gambit to oversee, no Guardians whining about their unfortunate engram, no primevals on the loose, just him and the quiet. Besides, it was night and most Guardians were either out on patrol or asleep in their beds.

With the decision justified in his mind Drifter moved away from the red railing platform and moved next to the bank he had set up in the Tower. Black tendrils danced like fire from the base of the glass and a pillar of light stood ever fading in the center. He crouched down to its base, his knees making it very aware they protested this action, and revealed a small control pad. Scrolling through a few menus he eventually found the transmat controls he had installed in it and punched in the coordinates to his pride and joy. He swiftly followed it, instructing his ghost to take them away.

The Derelict was an old ship, older than him even, but it was invaluable. Through it he was able to escape the reach of the Traveler and venture into the stars. He left behind the world ravaged and baren by the collapse for an endless universe. He fled from fearful tribes of humans who would hunt him as a monster and became a survivor none could compare to. Many had walked this ship before, friends, enemies, and even a lover or two. He had once had a crew aboard with him, all of them pitching in to keep it in tip top shape. Now, he was alone. Alive, but utterly alone.

Time had changed everything: Earth now held a bastion of civilization, the risen were now heralded as heroes, the Traveler had reawoken, the Darkness had been pushed back. But where the people as a whole had prospered, he had lost: His crew was dead, all of his friends had died, his ghost now shunned him, the truth was so painful now that all he ever bring himself to speak was deceit.

He walked the halls of the ship to where he had made the captain's quarters. The room was fairly sizable, fully stocked with a bathroom, kitchen, workspace, bed, and dining table. The metal grates of the floor were replaced with dirty, but beautiful carpets scavenged from here and there. The Drifter stopped just passed the entrance and carefully removed his boots, placing them besides the entrance. As he continued in the room he removed more of his outfit until only his pants and green undershirt remained. He placed each article of clothing, cloth of fabric, and weapon in there respective places in his room. Scratching his now freed black hair he looked about the room and found his eyes falling upon the kitchen. Typically he only ever ate from the Tower's mess hall to keep hunger at bay, but cooking was relaxing and he still enjoyed the taste of food.

Moving quickly, he opened various drawers and cupboards, not finding a single scrap. He cursed softly and contemplated simply not eating, but he decided against it. His body protested his refusal to rest, and he knew without food it would only get worse. The Drifter moved back to the entrance of his cabin, retrieving his shoes, and had his ghost take him back down to the surface. The red eyed machine made a gesture of discontent at having to transmit the Guardian again after just getting back.

Once back in the Tower, he walked through its many plaza's and corridors until he came upon a set of elevators. He called one up, and proceed to sit on a nearby bench to wait. After a minute of waiting the door finally opened and two figures stood in it. The two of them walked briskly passed, both donned in a blue uniform and hat, most likely the night shift. As quickly as its previous occupants exited Drifter entered. The elevator was utilitarian, no decoration or design at all, simply four metal walls with a series of buttons near the door. Drifter pressed the one leading to the ground floor. As the elevator went down, he found himself occasionally slowed in his journey by other passengers also wishing to descend.

Drifter glanced around all of these people and found himself in quiet reflection. None of these people likely knew what he was, with no armor or ghost to be seen he looked nothing like a risen except for his scars. His ego slightly itched at his mind, telling him to summon his ghost so the crowded elevator would look upon him with awe, respect, and shower him with praise. The people of the city looked up to the risen, or Guardians as they called them. It was so different from the days of yore, when the resurrected dead were looked upon with abject fear and horror. That look of fear would probably still paint their faces if they knew what he had done. Drifter, in a rare moment, thanked the cosmos that his deeds did not paint his skin aside from his scars.

The elevator ride came to a final stop at the ground level, it's white walls and floors had decorations depicting various risen triumphs of insignia. The crowd departed and scattered about, most of them leaving the entrance to the Tower into a parking lot. At this moment, Drifter had a realization: he had no clue how to get to a shopping district. A scowl painted his face, cursing his lack of foresight. He looked about the ground floor of the Tower and found a desk in the center of it. Stationed in it, an exo receptionist donned in a blue robe was silently typing away at a terminal. He walked up to the desk and cleared his throat to get the receptionist's attention.

"Hey there partner, now this may sound a little weird but could you point me to-" The Drifter began, a smooth confidence coating his gravelly voice before he found himself interrupted  
"-You are a Guardian I take it?" The exo had a very heavy robotic tone to it's synthesized voice.  
The Drifter gawked- very few people had the bravado to talk over him and it threw him off briefly. "What-uhh, yes I am. What gave it away?"  
"You looked out of place with the rest of the crowd in the elevator given your lack a uniform. The only group in the Tower with clothes like yours are Guardians wanting to explore the city. Now then, I'm going to go on a limb and say you were going to ask for help in some manner when it comes to navigating yourself around this place" The exo spoke in an analytical and manner of fact tone, which made sense. Working where the Vanguard had relocated the exo had needed to be straight to the point so he could help the various authorities or VIPs when they decided to pay a visit.

The Drifter composed himself quickly and responded with his usual facade of cool. "Spot on. Now then, what I'm looking for is a place where I can get some grub. Don't want no restaurants or what-like, I'm looking for ingredients to cook."

The Exo reached into a nearby drawer and pulled out a small white earpiece and extended it to Drifter. "This is a phonto, it's got a built in holo projector to it that's connected extranet and doubles as a communication device. Vanguard gives us these to loan out to Guardians so they can explore the city. I'm going to need you to give this back when your done with it, it's got transmat coordinates in..."

Over the next 15 minutes the Exo, Qin-8 as the Drifter had come to learn, educated Drifter on how to operate the device and how to navigate through the city with it. Drifter thanked him for the device, and promised to return it. He quickly exited the Tower into the parking lot, where the bright lights of the city and the sounds of nearby traffic filled his senses. He found himself musing over the city. Every vehicle hastily transported about it's passengers, so unlike in the early dark age where most of his travel was done on foot. Once upon a time the sound of a vehicle terrified him, often preluding a group of nomads or bandits coming by to kill and raid him for what little materials he had. All the flashing lights reminded him of machines on the brink of malfunction. Such lights were once a preamble to a heating unit malfunctioning and exploding, killing him then leaving him to die again of the cold.

Drifter snapped out of his revelry opened up the phonto's menu, opening maps and web browsers to find nearby locations offering up the goods he was searching for. Faster than he thought he found an unexpectedly close bazaar offering fresh ingredients. With his destination in mind Drifter hailed an automated cab and input his destination to the controls. The drive took a total of about ten minutes. In that time the Drifter found himself looking in awe at the city, the expanse and grandness of it all was a visual overload. Even in sections where ruin and rubble was still being cleared he saw hordes of people milling about. There was so much and so many people.

The cab pulled off to the side and dropped him off at the bazaar. Drifter exited the vehicle after inputting an appropriate amount of glimmer to pay for the transaction. Looking at the bazaar was like looking into the city, an endless expanse of people milling about despite the late hour and colorful adverts painting the walkway. Every stall had multiple staff, all working together to make transactions with many customers simultaneously all while maintaining their product.

As the Drifter walked about and purchased his ingredients the reflective thoughts so plaguing his tired mind today resurfaced. There were so many people scattered about the bazaar, so unlike when he walked the Earth last. In the dark ages the largest groups were tribes consisting of at max a few hundred members. Never could a crowd like this be found, a lack of resources making it hard to care for such high numbers. Drifter looked about each person he crossed and thought about them. They all probably had friends and family at home, people that cared for them. Who did the Drifter have?

Drifter paid for his groceries, the glimmer he had accumulated from his adventures finding a home in the hands of others. With his goods in hand Drifter quickly navigated to a nearby alley and transmatted back to his ship. Due to safety reasons transmatting was not allowed inside the city with few exceptions, but right now he did not care. All the people constantly surrounding him filled his heart with anxiety and panic. There were too many sights, too many sounds, too many people. He needed to leave and get back to the Derelict.

His thoughts raced in an anxiety rushed state, jumbled and never completing themselves. Drifter tried to walk back to his quarters but found himself slowing down and crouching eventually needing to stop. Panic overrode his mind and he found himself almost paralyzed by his own thoughts. He stayed there for what felt like hours, not moving and hyperventilating all while his mind fell into a panic attack.

When he finally got his bearings back the Drifter stood to his feet and finished the walk to his quarters. Once inside he again discarded his boots. Moving with a foriegn but practiced ease the Drifter put away his goods in their respective cupboards and fridge space. He donned on a large apron he once bought on a bet he lost and set about making his meal. It was such a basic task to his mind. This was not his first foray into cooking. He had always had a natural talent for cooking. His body maintained a trained grace while performing the deed, and it was so easy to him. He wondered if he had been a chef in his previous life?

The meal was simple but good, a vegetable soup with rice and a large grilled pork chop served with a glass of apple cider. It brought him such pride to create the food. The vegetable soup despite it's simple parts had a subtle complexity to its taste. Pork chops were infamous for being dry when cooked but the one that found itself upon his plate was moist and bursting with flavor. Even the rice was delicious, light, fluffy, and seasoned with a small bit of butter. The apple cider, while out of place, was a drink of choice for the Drifter, apples were a delicacy to him and to have one distilled into a drink was heaven.

He looked about the room, eager to share his pride with his crew, but there were none, not anymore. The confident smile was whisked away from the Drifter's face for a somber expression. There had been on one for quite some time, the last one had been Orin and she had all but disappeared. Everyone he had when he was alive had either died before his eyes, or just up and left. He had no one. The Drifter was a con man, a master of underhanded deals and politics. He was so good he was able to play the Shadows of Yor like a goddamn fiddle. But of all of the alliances he had, the partners he made, he had no trust among them. With no trust to be found in his life the Drifter found himself alone.

He set about eating his meal, now with less joy in his heart than mere moments ago. As he ate, memories began to surface in his mind. Drifter remembered times when hunger so pained his stomach and body that all he could do was die, be resurrected, and die, be resurrected…a vicious cycle. The thought of death brought his mind to a dark place. Death at the hands of others he could cope. Being shot in the back by a vandel was merely an occupational hazard. Having a thrall claw out your eyes was bound to happen when you were dealing with the Thorn. A Cabal ripping a man in half was normal. None of the ways that he had been killed ever fazed him, it was the cruel hands of nature that left him terrified.

Nature was the one to blame when you could not eat because no food would grow. The cold, which had frozen him to death more times than he cared to count, was a part of nature. It was uncaring, it was cruel. So many times the Drifter had died, and so many times it had been because nature did not nurture him. His ghost may have made it so his body was forever in its prime, and that his mind always had its faculties, but it was never enough. It did not matter that he had killed hundreds of Taken, thousands of Cabal, hundreds of thousands of Fallen, or even millions of Hive. He could always be killed by the negligent hand of nature. He was weak.

Drifter finished his meal. He put away his leftovers with a movement more akin the machines of the Vex than the joyful grace he had when he started. His mind was elsewhere, deep in a dark abyss of sadness, too mournful to think of the tasks in front of him. When he finished, Drifter moved back to the table with a refilled glass of cider, this time mixed with a dose of alcohol saved for times like this.

The Drifter drank as he wallowed in sadness over the poor circumstances of his resurrected life. He had lived longer than any other Guardian, he might even be the oldest creature in the Sol system with Riven now gone. His long life had made him see so much, and feel even more. He had loved and lost beyond what any widow could claim. The starvation he had experienced was greater than any city-born street rat could have imagined. The cold had frozen him so much not even the dead awoken in the belt of Saturn would understand. He had been boiled and baked alive by stars on distant planets. He had so many friends and had lost even more.

Drifter had lost so much, and the Drifter was utterly alone.

It was all too much, he tried to stop them but tears began to stream down his face. It started as a quiet sniffle but grew into a raw and ugly wail of pain. The more he tried to bottle up the pain the more he sobbed. There was so much pain and hurt in his heart and it was all pouring out now, the dam had broken and he could not fix it now. He cried for his dead friends, his lost happiness, his shattered and broken trust. The Drifter cried for himself. As he wept, he felt his loneliness become accentuated. If only he had someone to talk to, someone to share his pain, but he had no one.

All of a sudden he felt a tap on his hand. Startled, Drifter looked at to what it was. There above his hand, was a machine with a single red eye and a black shell with brown and green decorations. It was his ghost. The red light stayed floating next to the hand it had touched for a moment before moving closer. It hovered in front of his face, staring at him, emotionless. It looked away from him, adopting a mournful look.

"I'm sorry."

The Drifter's ghost was not one of many words, yet it told more lies than him. In this moment however, it spoke with a brutal honesty. It was shocking. She put him through so much, it was her choice that allowed him to live again, and she was apologizing for it.

She went to speak again but the Drifter shushed her. Gently, he grabbed her in his hand. The tears were still flowing from his eyes, but he had managed to contain his wails. Drifter moved the two of them to his bed. He got under his blanket and laid on his side. He placed the ghost in the crook of his neck, her shell was uncomfortable, but what it represented was more important. He was not alone.

Next morning, Drifter woke up with an imprint on his neck of where the little red light had slept with him.

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_Reviews are always welcome, let me know what you think_


	2. The Tailor

_When silk frays or tears, a tailor gathers his needle and thread to repair it_

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The Spider sat in his safehouse upon his throne. He lacked the beauty of Kells long forgotten, his throne was not made of gold, and his safehouse was not a grand palace full of opulence and excess. No, he was fat, his throne was a tarnished and scuffed captains chair, scavenged from the hull of one of a thousand wrecked ships scattered across the reef, and his safehouse was a dingy tunnel hidden in a ghost town of thieves. However, regardless of what or where he was there was one undeniable fact of who he is: The pillar of order on the lawless tangled shore. While the remnants of the Red Legion, the dying factions Scorn, the shore's Hive nest, and the House of Dusk only sowed chaos and destruction, the Spider came as an organized opposition to their schemes. He had scores of fallen at his command, working not just out of loyalty but for pay, which acted as a far better motivation than the threats of death used by those who stood against him. But that was not all he had, he also had trump cards in the form of outsiders, such as the people of the Last City or the awoken of the Reef, at his beck and call. For this power over others, he had been given the title of the Shore's only law. Despite this title being given to him as a form or respect, he rejects it with no small amount of ire, he only sees himself as a businessman.

As the Spider sat, his fingers danced upon the yellow screen of the pda integrated into his chair. It displayed things such as mission reports from his subordinates, shipping manifests, communications from his other 'friends', and other bits of information. When wielding as much power as the Spider, there comes an endless stream of data at all times that must be analyzed or else failure would be soon to follow, but his cursed eyes would not focus. The Spider couldn't remember the last time he had slept, and no matter how many stims he used his mind would not reinvigorate. He couldn't help but feel all his current effort was a waste. But still he had no intention to rest, today had been a losing battle against the house of dusk and he would not cave to their assault.

Ether was the lifeblood of the Eliksni, without it they die. The Spider had been taking advantage of this key weakness of his own kind. He had been systematically destroying or capturing servitors from the House of Dusk to starve them out. This would deal a major blow to their operations and help facilitate the house's collapse. However, in an act of retaliation and desperation, his disgraced brethren had taken to raiding him for his own ether supplies. It wasn't enough to have any meaningful impact on his business ventures, as he has an excess of the vapor, but if he could not protect this cache, it would be...bad for business.

He fiddled with a dead ghost as he patiently waited for a status report, a foreboding sense of unease permeating his thoughts. When, finally, a message came from the commander he had entrusted for this mission. The communication informed him that the two sides were now locked in stalemate. His troops were hunkered down behind the cover of a downed ketch, and the House of Dusk had done similar with nearby debris from the more ancients ships of the reef, effectively locking both sides into trench warfare. The Spider hated stalemates, they meant that no amount of clever strategy or bold actions could be employed without heavy losses. His forces were already stretched thin, he could spare no more for an ambush or backup. The only thing that would determine this battle was time and the skill of his troops.

The Spider rubbed his tired eyes, and typed out one final message to his commander. He told him to fight well and hard, offering an incentive of an extra kilogram of ether to the troops should they be successful. As his fingers finished their ballet across his screen, his whole body seemed to simultaneously relax and tense up. There was nothing he could do, but he could not help but feel anxiety bubbling in his mind while a simultaneous exhaustion ran down from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. The Spider felt defeated, he knew the battle was not yet finished, but still he felt as if he lost.

It was times like this the Spider felt doubt in his goals. The hollow remains of the Eliksni took the title of Fallen for a reason. They were once a noble race, but they had devolved into pirates and thieves. They were disgraceful and shameful. For the Eliksni, a Kell was a champion of honor and nobility, but for the fallen they were tyrants with an iron fist. His race had come to enslaving themselves in the name of conserving ether. The fallen had twisted whatever remains of their dead culture, and transformed it into justification for cruelty and mutilation of all, including their own. They would dock a vandel if he failed a mission, tearing out his second arms from their sockets even if their failure was no fault of their own, the Eliksni would not no such thing. The very thought of docking made The Spider feel a throb of pain all to familiar to him.

The Spider hated the fallen, and he hated Kells. When he was born he believed in the hopeless ideal of reclaiming the great machine, reclaiming the Eliksni's former glory, and bringing back the days of honor for his people. However, all of that was shattered the last time he was docked. The pain of his old mutilations sent a shiver down his spine and a throb in his second shoulders. As the Spider's mind spiraled further and further down the road of pessimism and memory, he found himself desiring for solitude. He could do nothing for his current predicament, as far as he was concerned he might as well take a moment to himself. But there was just one problem, if he was going to rest there was only one place he was comfortable doing so, and he could not have his guards know about it.

"Guards!" They turned to face The Spider. "Leave. Stand outside the door and only come when I call you, I have some...other business I must attend to" The Spider's english boomed with a façad of confidence, disguising his true thoughts and intentions. His guards bowed low, asking no questions of their employer and pleasing him with the utterly human gesture. They turned towards the door open in front of them, and walked out, locking the entrance behind them.

The Spider delayed himself just a moment more after his protection left, then made to move from his chair. He removed his blanket from his stomach, exposing his fat stomach to the air, and more importantly exposing his injury. All around The Spiders second arm sockets and his waist, scars and bits of machinery poked out. The Spider couldn't help it as his eyes drifted down to look upon his own deformity. His movement slowed to a stop as he stared at his everlasting wounds, and felt his memory stir in recollection.

There was a reason he hated Kells, why he hated his own race. The Spider Spider had once held allegiance to the House of Winter, but he was a bleeding hearted fool, he stole from the house to care for those less fortunate than himself. His kindness would become his downfall, and was docked many times for his 'transgressions'. When he was young he was what humans would call Robin Hood, a mastermind that looked out for his fellow dregs all while undermining his superiors. But he was a fool and became cocky leading to him being caught in the act, he was often docked by his Kell for his defiance. His last docking however went horribly wrong, leaving him crippled and near death. Even now he could now only barely move his second set off arms without excruciating pain and had numerous life support systems in his body to keep his heart beating. Kells were tyrants of unchecked power, as such they ruled with iron fists and cold, frozen hearts. No mercy could ever be found at the hand of a Kell, the excruciating pain in his arms was his proof of that truth. Even when he was barely breathing, bleeding to death from his armless sockets his Kell did not bat an eye, he simply walked away and left him for dead.

The Spider drew himself out of his thoughts. He drew his gaze upon his throne. It was dirty, scuffed, and disgusting, exactly what he wanted it to be. Kells sat in regal and beautiful thrones, and the Spider was no Kell. He saw the chains holding the seat aloft as his own chains, always there and never leaving, but now he could be free of them now whenever he pleased.

He began to sing. His voice was gravelly and slightly off key, after all it was not designed to sing human melodies, he sung "Hǎo yī duǒ měilì de mòlihuā / Hǎo yī duǒ měilì de mòlihuā." His throne dematerialized, along with the floor below it. Now all that was visible was a stairway with no light at the bottom, only a black void. He walked down the steps, careful not to fall or cause any irritation to his arms. As he walked down the steps, his mind still fixated on the earthly melody, another song surfaced in his mind. A tune known as _El Fusilado__,_ and so he once again began to sing. As he continued down the long corridor leading to his personal treasure room he thought of what the lyrics meant to him.

The song seemed to parallel his own life, he was born to the House of Wolves, and then fled to the House of Winter after Mara Sov orchestrated its downfall. While under its rule he fought valiantly alongside his brothers and sisters. In time he would be come to be known as one of the houses many Blizzards, members recognized and praised for their sudden strategies that would leave their enemies as vulnerable as blind children. But as he fought he would see the dregs amongst the ranks widdle away and die. Many would cower and shake, some would simply collapse on the charge to battle, but often they would be killed because they were just so weak. At first he believed that his enemies had a hidden weapon, some kind of disease or hidden technology or even some form of magic that would at best strike them with an invisible weakness, or at worse kill them with unseeable injuries. But as time would pass he would learn their deaths were much more sinister in nature. He found out that his brothers were not just being docked, but starved of ether they would desperately need. His mind finally pieced together the puzzle: the reason they were weak or sometimes would just simply collapse into death embrace was that they did not have enough food to eat.

His heart was youthful, naive, and so large that it could not handle being idle while his fellow Eliksni die of hunger. He used his brilliant mind to sneak ether to his dying brothers so they could live. He would always remember the look of gratefulness that would adorn their face at his offering, and the proceeding mania they would drink the vapor with. Many of those fallen would swear oaths of loyalty to him, and then go on to be his most faithful soldiers. They asked no questions about his orders, raised no objections to his plans, and would never think of running even at his most hair brained of plans. They stood tall beside him, and even the lowliest of dregs under his command and feed would perform tasks no other would. For his actions he eventually became a captain, and now given even more control over his fellow brethren. They were the suicide squad, sent on mission with impossible tasks and always succeeding with little to no casualties. His deeds became so well known that his Kell began contemplating if he was worthy of becoming an Archon Rising.

But then he made a fatal mistake, while making one of his runs to feed his troops ether that was not rationed to them he had opted to take a small vent to reach their quarters. But now having recently been made a captain and grown in size due to his healthy portion of ether, failed to account for this increase in mass. As he squeezed through the vent the metal collapse under him and screeched open, violently dumping him down below. He landed right in the central chamber of his Kell, stolen ether in hand.

For his misdeeds he was docked. Despite that he did not want to stop his escapades, so despite it all he kept stealing ether, but eventually hunger began to settle in. He was too focused on his brethren and did not feed himself enough, only ever consuming enough to regrow his arms when they were torn from his body. The starvation ate away at his clear mind, and he became sloppy with his attempts a theft. He was caught and docked, caught and docked again, and again, and again. Until finally he had his last docking, the scar tissue around this second arm sockets had grown thick, and when his Kell tore them out, enormous chunks of his sides and insides were taken with them. His Kell stared at the body of a captain he once held favor for, in a fallen equivalent he scoffed and left him for dead. He did not die though, a dreg saved him, he did not know this dreg no did she know him, but he had heard of him. In time he would learn him to be called Siviks, and he would come to call him brother. They would go on to form the basis of what the Spider now controlled, but as time would pass, the Spider would find him where he was now, alone without his brother.

He finally arrived at the bottom of the stairway. It dark and dank, but warm, like the humidity of summer night. Even with his glowing blue eyes he could not see in the room's heavy darkness. The Spider raised his hands and clapped them twice, causing the light in the room to hum with life, the stairway to vanish, and the door behind him to seal.

The room was shaped like a pentagon, and glowed with a golden hue reflecting off the many objects decorated with precious metal. The walls were tall and reached high in the air, tapering to a point aligned with the center of the room. They were made of a solid and sturdy wood, contrasting beautifully with the light given by the crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. In each corner were statues, built with hidden cameras none but the Spider could see through, that stood guard against the spying and prying eyes of those who wish to know what riches lay within, and there were many. The room held his treasures, that which he held dear to him; famous pieces of art such as the Mona Lisa, books of varying genres ranging from science fiction to history all the way to fantasy, countless trinkets of little or meaningless value, and a few things which to an outsider looked out of place. The Spider looked at dingy objects that stood unsuitably within and held his gaze over them, and remembered each precious memory they stood for. In the center was what those knew him considered his favorite piece: The Starry night. But those who knew of this room did not truly know him, they did not know what he truly treasured the most.

When the Spider left the fallen, he also abandoned the dream of the Eliksni. The dream of all fallen was to rebuild their old society of honor, to stand tall once again in the great machines grace. The very thought of the old mantras and motives that drove his race brought him feelings of shame and disgust. They were fools, thinking they could bring back what was lost. Nothing could bring back what was lost, not even a ghost, who could resurrect the dead, could bring back who a person once was. No when the hopeless brought back they dead all they ever did was reanimate the husk. To many it might look the same, but it is not what is once was. If only the fallen could see that their society was another dead thing that had no hope of coming back as it was. And even if they could how would they, they had no idea what their ancestors were like. how would they rebuild a society they knew nothing about? The whirlwind had destroyed their history, all that was left of it were the tales of dead of dying fallen who had twisted it so that it would better fit their own agenda. The only thing the fallen had of the Eliknsi's grace was their houses, and even then the houses were now all collapsed, from their ashes the house of dusk was founded but it was just and decrepit and broken as the ones before it. All that was left of the proud Eliksni was a disgraceful and pitiable race of pirates who had taken the human title of fallen.

The Spider wandered the room surveying his many treasures and trophies. He stalked around the entirety of the room, carefully looking at each object and remembering why he held them so dear. Once he had circled around once he turned towards the center of the room. There on the floor was a large golden circular sigil that housed thousands of golden patterns woven into it. However, what many did not know was that the floor held a secret. The Spider walked into the center of the room, he then bent down slowly as to agitate his back as little as possible. He pushed down on the circle's center, and it caved downwards. Clicks and whirs of machines previously inactive began to sound throughout the room, overtaking the deafening silence. Stepping back the Spider watched as seems, previously invisible to the naked eye, parted opening the floor, and from it came a shine and a pedestal. The shrine was beautiful, covered in jewels and plated with silver and gold. For such an elegant display one would expect some item of incredible beauty to sit in the center, but no. What sat in the grand pedestal was a book, incredibly worn with stains and scratches strewn all across the faded red soft cover of the book. The Spider reached for the item, and took it very delicately in his hands, and he read it's title. _An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations_. This is what the Spider treasured the most.

The Spider hated Kells, and he would never let himself become one, but with no leadership the Fallen were sure to only fall even farther from grace, but this book held the answer he so desperately searched for. The book talked about a way to lead his people back to order without the need for Kells. The book spoke of capitalism, an economic system that took advantage of the inherently greedy nature of individuals and use it to create what is ultimately a cause for the greater good. It spoke of the laws of supply and demand and also of the idea of a free market. In these things the Spider saw his way to help rebuild the fallen, not as the Eliksni but as something entirely new. Even despite the potential pitfalls of this practice he saw a life so much better than the one the fallen currently lead. He would use the greed of his people to rebuild them.

It was lead him to where he is now, he created fair wages for his workers, and in return they gave him a fair trade in the form of performing work for him. They work they would do would allow the Spider to have more resources, meaning he could both pay his workers more and hire more helping hands to expand even farther. He never hid his business practices from his employees, allowing them to learn by watching him so that they might one day start up their own trade. He fought with the House of dusk and would starve them out, treating them like a competing business partner. When the house of dusk would fall the fallen would flock to him or mimic him. He would build a new society for the fallen, one built on fair trade and capitalism.

So what if he was ruthless, so what if he killed. He was not the blind oaf Mithrax, he held no illusion that his race would become noble any time soon. His race was made of killers, it was now their nature and he did nothing to change that, he took advantage of it to further his business. The blood he spilt was no different than the blood spilled by those before him and those would would come after. He did not believe himself to be a paragon of virtue, he was a businessman. He sought to turn a profit and use that to guide his race towards a better future. He was not racing towards utopia, he knew that to be impossible, al he searched for ways to guide his race out of hell and purgatory. If he is so wrong that let the traveler strike him down. Change takes time, and regardless of how history remembers him it will always be noted that it was him who had guided his race to be better. Not perfect, no excellent, not even great or good or even decent, only better than what they currently are.

A ping sound from comm, and the Spider saw it was coming from his commander. He set down his precious hope and let his thoughts of a better world take a backseat to his duty.

"You better be calling to tell me you've won, I'm very busy right now" his voice carried an annoyed tone, upset for having his moment of hope broken by the reality of the war he was waging.

"Indeed, the house of dusk has retreated, we have won sir"

A toothy grin spread itself across his face underneath his mask, this is what he was wanting to hear, a small step towards the betterment of the future

"Excellent, expect a bonus for your excellent work today. Until then however, start the transport of that ether and the servitors along with it. Dusk is a bunch of slimy and tricky bastards, we can't give them the chance to try this again by leaving where it is any longer than necessary"

"Yes sir! Signing off now"

The Spider herd the comm go dead, with a smile on his face and hope in his heart he put the book back on its pedestal and commanded it to sink back into the floor. He would lead his race back to a grace without the aid of a god, no matter what it took.

* * *

__Salutations my readers, sorry for such a long pause between my last chapter and this one, but here it is, I hope you like it. _Feel free to leave a review, I always appreciate a helpful suggestion. Also let me know about any spelling or grammar errors, they are the bane at me as I suck at both. _


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